


Bánh

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Ficlet, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Public Claiming, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Rivendell, Thranduil publicly demonstrates his ownership of Legolas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bánh

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for shadow-ravin’s “Thranduil dominating Legolas” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“I apologize, my lord, it is just that we have such a small supply—”

Thranduil’s glare does its work, and the servant quiets for Thranduil to hiss, “And what exactly is that supply for, if not to celebrate the arrival of foreign dignitaries?” If they were in the Greenwood, this fool would already be in his dungeons, but Imladris, as far as Thranduil knows, doesn’t even have such things. The servant bows his head, brown hair falling over his shoulders. It’s strange to see the twisted metal ring around his forehead when he’s done nothing to earn such a crown, but Thranduil’s is at least far superior, made of living branches and woven with blooming flowers. He stands tall above the diminutive servant, his mere presence insisting that they _give him that Dorwinion wine right now._

But the servant, surprisingly resilient, wipes a pink tongue over his lips and delicately murmurs, “It is only that my lord Elrond has not—”

“I do not care what Elrond has or has not told you,” Thranduil snaps, his patience growing thinner. “I am as high above you as a dragon is a toad, and I have ordered you to fetch me proper wine. When I am invited to a feast I expect amenities befitting my station, and you—”

“Thranduil,” another voice interjects, drawing Thranduil’s face aside at the address. Elrond strolls up behind him, golden robes matching Thranduil’s silver attire, but his face grave, his mouth in a thin line. His eyes drift quickly to the servant, who looks at Elrond with a burst of sudden devotion and perhaps a plea for help. Elrond is far too soft with his underlings, but that’s an argument for another day, _after_ Thranduil is given proper drink. 

Before Elrond can say anymore, Thranduil demands, “If you have come to fetch me, I have no intention of leaving until my goblet is filled with a Dorwinion brew.”

Elrond, in a rare moment of wise counsel, bids his servant, “Please see that it is brought up to the feast, Lindir.”

For all his fight earlier, the servant instantly bows, uttering a respectful, “Yes, my lord,” and then he turns and sweeps off. Perhaps he’s eager to escape Thranduil’s wrath, but it’s worth no more of Thranduil’s time to speculate on.

Glancing back at Elrond, he coolly asks, “What is it?”

“I have indeed come to fetch you,” Elrond replies, though he pauses afterwards—uncharacteristic, for an elf as old as he is, who should have all the answers. He finally settles on, “I do not mean to pry, but I am concerned. Your son has eaten nothing all evening.”

Thranduil only smirks. He could almost chuckle at Elrond’s foolishness, but instead he merely drawls, “How quickly you forget that the customs of my people are different than your own.” Elrond quirks a questioning brow, but Thranduil says no more. He’d rather demonstrate.

When he sweeps past Elrond along the paving stones of the garden, Elrond falls into step behind him. Thranduil returns to the feast at a slow, leisurely place—it’s hardly a matter for concern. Sometimes it’s particularly clear to Thranduil that Elrond has entertained one too many mortals and forgotten the strength of elves. Even his precious leaf, who appears so pretty and lithe and delicate, is as fierce and skilled as Elrond’s own warrior sons and can certainly survive without one meal. Unlike Elrond’s twins, Thranduil’s son simply happens to have the complete package.

As he ascends the twisted steps to the open banquet, he can hear the lilting music of harps and flutes—the quiet minstrels of Imladris have little on Thranduil’s own. He steps onto the platform and instantly spies his son, perched near the head of the table and across from Elladan and Elrohir. The rest of the company seated at the long table is busy eating or chattering amongst themselves, but Legolas is sitting rigidly in his chair, while Elrond’s twin sons eye him with open lust. They speak to him in hushed voices, his responses clipped in return but his face friendly. They look as though they want to eat him alive. 

Thranduil can’t help the spark of pride that fills him. His child is beautiful beyond compare, and it’s no small wonder that everywhere he goes, elves clamour to claim him. At the same time, a fierce possessiveness broils in Thranduil’s stomach, and he increases his pace until he’s standing just behind Legolas. Legolas doesn’t move; he hasn’t been instructed to. Thranduil lays a hand on his shoulder, long fingers curling around his white robe and twisting in the side of his pale hair. The hunger doesn’t leave Elladan and Elrohir’s eyes, but they do straighten and cease their chatter. Thranduil doesn’t offer them any greeting. He reaches over Legolas, plucking up a ripe strawberry.

While Elrond settles back into his seat at the head of the table, between Legolas and Elladan, Thranduil presses the tip of the strawberry against his son’s lips. Even through the fruit, he can feel their softness, and Legolas only parts them slowly. Thranduil’s other hand splays over Legolas’ throat, sliding beneath his chin to tilt his face back. Legolas’ blue eyes are brought to his father, and Thranduil pushes the strawberry past Legolas’ teeth. He doesn’t stop until all but the green tip has disappeared inside Legolas’ mouth, and then he waits for Legolas’ pink lips to close around it. They brush against Thranduil’s fingertips, and Thranduil pulls the stem loose. He tosses it back to Legolas’ plate with a flick of his fingers.

Legolas’ eyes fall closed. He chews his morsel quietly, his father’s hand still splayed below his chin, his neck still arched so that his face is properly on display to the man that made him. Thranduil takes another strawberry from the waiting pile and does the same, wondering idly when this feast will end so he can fill Legolas’ mouth with cream. 

While Thranduil feed his heir a third berry, he casually explains to Elrond, “My son is better behaved than to eat by any other hand than his father’s.” Though his eyes don’t leave Legolas’ flushing face, he can see in his peripherals that Elrond has tensed. He often does when Thranduil displays his dominance over his child, though Thranduil would have no such reaction to see Elrond feed Elladan and Elrohir thus, or perhaps even Arwen. Of course, they’ve never been as well trained as Legolas. They leave the nest at will, probably because Elrond allows his reins too loose. 

And beyond that control, Legolas is a special case. All Elrond sees is a beautiful young creature subservient to his king. Elrond doesn’t know that Legolas is, in truth, a very talented warrior who burns for this, who begs and pleads for his father’s touch when they’re in the privacy of Thranduil’s quarters. He has fire, and he always craves _more_. Even now, Thranduil can see the lust clouding Legolas’ clear eyes. 

When Thranduil has felt the final strawberry pass Legolas’ throat, he observes Legolas’ face, absently deciding whether or not he deserves more food. He will, of course, be given plenty when they’ve retired to their quarters, but even Thranduil wouldn’t display those methods in public. At the question in Legolas’ eyes, he stops to murmur, “Is there something you would like, my leaf?”

Legolas softly asks, “May I go hunting with Elladan and Elrohir tomorrow, Ada?”

The smirk twists its way back onto Thranduil’s lips. Of course Elrond’s precious sons would want a chance to ravage Thranduil’s. Perhaps there’s hope for them yet. Fortunately for them, Thranduil is a generous master.

Mostly for Elrond’s sake, Thranduil drawls, “I do not want you to stray too far from me, Legolas. You may forget your place.”

Legolas breathes, eyes burning, “Never.” Thranduil pulls his hand away, allowing Legolas’ head to fall. 

Thranduil purrs, “Do you remember whom you belong to?”

“You, Ada,” Legolas breathes instantly, just as erotic as he would do beneath Thranduil’s sheets. Thranduil’s eyes flicker up in time to watch the desire rise on Elladan and Elrohir’s faces. He doesn’t bother to survey Elrond, who’s likely frowning himself into new wrinkles. 

Bending down to press a kiss to the top of Legolas’ head, Thranduil announces, “You may go, then.” But after, he ducks lower to scrape his teeth along the pointed tip of Legolas’ ear. He bites into it and drags his way off, forcing Legolas to gasp and stifle a moan. Into it, Thranduil hisses, quiet enough for only Legolas to hear, “When you suck their cocks, think of me.”

Legolas breathes, “I always do.”

Thranduil chuckles, “Good boy,” and licks at his ear again. Legolas has always had particularly sensitive ears, and the tremor that runs through his thin frame is unmistakable. 

Straightening, Thranduil slips into his seat on the other side of Legolas from Elrond. He’s only been there a moment when the servant from earlier arrives, carrying a tray of glasses. He comes straight for Thranduil, who happily retrieves his wine. The elf offers the tray to Legolas, but of course, Legolas doesn’t take it. 

For the rest of the feast, Thranduil enjoys his drink. He occasionally allows Legolas a sip and stops to feed his darling boy more delicacies, enjoying the jealousy across the table as Legolas licks Thranduil’s fingers clean.


End file.
